


Don't Stop Me Now

by timeanditch



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Journalist AU, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rockstar AU, Slow Burn, they're idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-08-23 16:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20246122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeanditch/pseuds/timeanditch
Summary: Anthony Crowley is a rock legend and Aziraphale scores a once in a lifetime interview with him. What neither of them know is that the once in a chance meeting turns into two, and then three. The journalist in Aziraphale knows there's something Anthony Crowley isn't telling him. Meanwhile Crowley is falling fast.Based on this human au by Adooboo on tumblr: https://adooboo.tumblr.com/post/186696024790/human-au-where-journalist-zira-scores-an-interview





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just dive right into the mortifying ordeal of being known huh

_ The Celestial Observer _ was always interviewing big names. If they were to contend with the other newspapers out there, they didn’t have a choice. Not to say the journalists didn’t enjoy their job, their taste of fame. An hour or two in the presence of someone they deemed more important than them was almost enough to forget the sleepless nights, groveling to superiors, and money wasted in the name of journalism. Not that any self proclaimed journalism would call it wasting.

Aziraphale was not a self proclaimed journalist. In fact, he merely stumbled across the job. _ The Celestial Observer _happened to be hiring right when he finished grad school. When he had imagined himself writing the history books of tomorrow, Aziraphale wasn’t quite thinking about working for a prominent newspaper. But he trusted in the great plan and didn’t question a good opportunity.

Aziraphale never thought he would end up interviewing famous rock legend, Anthony Crowley. To be quite frank, the existence of Anthony Crowley was almost unknown to Aziraphale if it were not for his godson Adam and his younger co-workers. He’s seen countless pictures of his dark glasses and fiery hair and heard not even a little bit of gossip in the office. One tends not to form the best opinion of someone when he’s viewed exclusively through biased eyes. Nevertheless, Aziraphale wanted to see the best in people. Tomorrow would be no different, he assured himself. The man must’ve done a thousand interviews before him, nothing would go wrong.

“Aziraphale! Hi, hello.” Gabriel had settled against his desk, only slightly peering over him to watch as he typed.

“Good morning, Gabriel. What can I do for you?” Aziraphale shifted his chair to face Gabriel in an attempt to hurry along the conversation. He had a story to write after all.

“The Celestial Observer has been lucky enough to get an interview with Anthony Crowley, you know the rockstar, you’ve heard of rock music right?” Gabriel gave a short laugh at his own joke before continuing.

“You’re going to interview him tomorrow, whatever you’re doing can wait. Normally, I would send someone else, but I’m not interested in turning this company into a gossip magazine. I know you’ve been here longer than most of us and I also know you’re good at what you do.”

“Is that a compliment, Gabriel?” Aziraphale teases. Technically, Gabriel is his superior but knowing someone for almost a decade makes them some sort of friend.

“Just doing my job,” he grumbles but not without the hint of a smile. He straightens as if he is about to leave but hesitates.

“Try to get something interesting out of him, we are running a business here, okay? Later.” Gabriel walks off before he can hear Aziraphale’s response.

“That is my job.”

After two cups of tea and some light reading (Well the reading hadn’t been light. Aziraphale was rereading _The Picture of Dorian Gray _ for the hundredth time, which he felt a certain affinity for. This first edition had been entrusted to him by an older man when he was in university and he never got to thank him for it. Since then, his love for Oscar Wilde only grew, a certain section of his room dedicated to Wilde first editions.) Aziraphale decided on sleeping. He fell asleep thinking about what Anthony Crowley would be like.

Aziraphale never had a problem with being old fashioned, but to say he wasn’t a bit worried about what other people thought would be lying. Was a tartan tie too much? He had stopped caring what his co-workers thought about him a long time ago but this was Anthony Crowley; rock legend, fashion icon, and a bit cooler then Aziraphale could ever wish to be. He tied his favorite pair of shoes and looked over the writing again.

The handwritten note from Gabriel detailed the time and place of the interview, the golden ink weaving calligraphy worthy of a Victorian letter. Aziraphale didn’t own a cell phone, something Gabriel needlessly bugged him about, yet his threats were never serious. Clipped to the note was enough money for a cab to the meeting place from Aziraphale’s flat. He had also never had a reason to learn to drive, the bus being so near to his place and taking him straight to the office. 

Quarter to two a cab was called and Aziraphale was on his way to St. James park. Funny sort of place for an interview, he thought, very public. He had reread the note in the cab fifteen times and spent the rest of the short ride fiddling with his tie, loosening and tightening it until he felt satisfied it was in the right position. Aziraphale figured spotting Anthony Crowley wouldn’t be too hard with his notorious all-black outfits and there were only so many benches on the north side of the water. Nothing to be worried about.

Aziraphale paid the cab driver, tipping her generously, and headed towards the water. As predicted, Anthony Crowley was not hard to spot. His gold jewelry reflected the sun and made him shine in the middle of the greenery. He was holding the hand of a child and laughing as the child dragged him under a willow tree, the wisps of leaves hitting his cheeks. Aziraphale stood frozen and watched the scene unfold.

“DUCKS!” The child pointed to the water then leaned over to the rockstar and grabbed his shirt to be lifted up. Anthony Crowley hesitated for a moment, than obliged.

“Sweetie, the ducks aren’t going anywhere. They just don’t like when humans are loud.” His voice was much softer than Aziraphale imagined and a blush rose to his cheeks. He couldn’t move and continued to stare as a woman ran up to the pair with the biggest sigh of relief.

“Mika! What have I told you about running off!” The child, Mika, clung to Anthony Crowley as he tried not to cry.

“Mummy, I wanted to see the ducks. They left me so I followed them here.” With a quick once over to make sure her child was safe the mother held out her arms.

“Sir, oh you're,” she started but the rockstar interrupted.

“Ma’am I apologize for--”

“No, no,” she continued, “I apologize for Mika taking up so much of your time, but thank you for keeping him safe.”

Aziraphale, realizing his not-spying from behind a bush looked suspicious, darted out and tried to casually head towards the trio almost bumping into a few tourists. Preoccupied with calming his nerves, Aziraphale missed part of the conversation and Mika was waving goodbye from his mother’s hip as they departed when Aziraphale made it to the rockstar.

“Anthony Crowley?” He asked, his voice squeakier than he anticipated, “Forgive me for my tardiness, I...” What was he supposed to say? That he got enamored in watching him interact with a child? “Got lost,” he finished lamely.

His counterpart laughed and turned to face Aziraphale, his mouth fading into a smile.

“Mr. Fell, I presume,” he motions to the bench where his guitar had been propped up, “Let’s talk.”


	2. The Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent the whole day thinking about how I wanted to portray human Crowley please enjoy

Anthony Crowley has had his fair share of overly excited fans and he noticed the blond man as soon as he stopped moving and started staring. Holding a stranger’s child as they mumbled about ducks certainly wasn’t the most subtle scene. Crowley wasn't a stranger to attracting attention from all sorts of people, but the man didn’t seem to be anyone threatening. Maybe upper management had decided to send someone less conspicuous to trail him, his paranoia hissed. He would’ve thought he had till the end of the month. Crowley was pulled out of his panic by the sudden appearance of a younger woman. The child’s name was Mika and the voice of his mother made him clutch harder at Crowley’s shirt.

“Ma’am I apologize for,” Crowley tried before getting cut off.

“No, no,” she glared at the boy, “I apologize for Mika taking up so much of your time, but thank you for keeping him safe.” She removed Mika from his arms and gave a long sigh, while Crowley watched his stalker dart into the crowd of people, face flushed as he stumbled across many apologies. The afternoon sunlight made his blond curls appear almost white; he was radiant and Crowley felt his heart tug.

“Excuse me, I have someone to meet. Good day ma’am, goodbye Mika.” Crowley had only made it one step forward before the man almost stumbled into him. His hands twitched ever so slightly, like the compulsive urge to fidget was never completely taught out of him, and Crowley caught sight of the slight pink that graced his nails.

“Anthony Crowley?” It would be fair to note that Crowley wasn’t paying attention. In front of him stood an angel. (When Raphael painted those two cherubs in 1512 he had not intended for them to ever be a topic of discussion. High ranking angels were never intended to take human form, but Raphael had lost a bet with a buddy and decided it was worth the risk of excommunication. Painting two angels as chubby children was not the worst of his sins anyways.) Crowley’s mind raced to find an explanation for this cherub knowing his name. I mean, he was famous, but that reason didn’t settle well with him. He snuck another look, and oh! The tartan tie! Of course, the journalist Crowley was waiting for. Idiot, he thought, I am an idiot.

The man had given him a bewildered look as he finished his sentence. Got lost, as if he didn’t spend a full minute observing from a distance. Probably not the biggest fan of Crowley. He allowed himself a laugh, and smiled at the nervous angel.

“Mr. Fell, I presume,” Crowley motions towards his forgotten guitar, “Let’s talk.”

Out of every interview Anthony Crowley had had, this was one of his favorites. Admitting he fancied the journalist was not going to be one of his reasons. Not one of the questions he asked was typical and his scrawled handwriting on a light blue pad intrigued Crowley. None of the words were legible and the smudged ink furthered their illegibility. Mr. Fell, who asked to be called Ezra, insisted on shaking his hand and giving him a beaming smile that would have knocked Crowley on his ass if he wasn’t already sitting.

“Kids.” Ezra tapped the pen lightly against his lips before continuing, “What do you think of them?”

Crowley had never been unprepared for an interview, especially not the shorter ones, but this question took him by surprise. So they were playing this kind of game. Not knowing where to draw his own limits, Crowley proposed an arrangement of sorts.

“How about this, for every personal question I answer I get to ask you a question. I promise I won’t ask anything inappropriate.” Looking up into Ezra’s eyes, he searched for disapproval and then the following discomfort. It never came.

“Sounds like a deal, but you have to answer my question first and then I get another question.” Blush dusted Ezra’s cheeks and Crowley couldn’t help but stare. Blue eyes met his, luckily obscured by sunglasses, and Ezra let out a little cough. Crowley straightened and pushed his sunglasses further up.

“I tend to like kids more than adults,” his thoughts drifting to his godson, Warlock, an unfortunate name but a sweet kid, “They’ve got more spark and selflessness and love then we adults do. They ask questions, not just to understand but to learn. They scream and cry but don’t we all?” Crowley tries to laugh off the uncomfortable memories it brings up, but only manages to shiver. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the stove and your mom and don’t think about the pain. The sound of sizzling slowly creeps up on Crowley. Ezra saves him from drowning.

“This next question might be a bit harder to answer.” Crowley mentally braces for it. No backing out of the arrangement now.

“Is it harder to learn guitar or drums? My godson Adam insists that guitar is the more difficult one but I think drums require a more innate approach to music, which not everyone has.”

Crowley’s laughing now, not only in relief but in disbelief. Disbelief in Ezra, in himself for thinking Ezra would ever ask something frightening and Crowley would have to face the music and answer. He could never lie to an angel.

“Drums, definitely. Guitar comes natural to me.” Ezra gives such a smug smile in response Crowley almost forgets it’s his turn to ask a question.

“Alright Ezra, my question for you, what do you do when you’re not writing or following a story?”

“Well, I have a little book collecting hobby (The keyword here being little.) and spend a lot of time in antique book shops. Besides that, I visit my godson Adam as often as I can.” Crowley didn’t miss the way Ezra touched the gold ring on his pinkie when he mentioned his godson, twisting it around once before his hands settled back onto the pad.

The rest of the interview went at the same pace and Crowley wished he could will it to last longer. Usually he couldn’t wait to get a moment alone but something told him he wouldn’t mind more of Ezra’s company.

“Not to rush you Mr. Crowley but I have to head back to the office soon. But you have one more question left and I’m going to honor our arrangement.” Ezra’s soft voice made Crowley’s cheeks heat up as he tried to think of a good last question. He needed to hint that he wanted to see Ezra again, but not desperately, that wasn’t very Anthony Crowley.

“Why is your name Ezra?” Stupid, stupid, stupid, why would you ask that, are you stupid. Crowley was about to set fire to the box in his mind that contained his train of thought, betrayed. Wait, Ezra was giggling. His eyes crinkled and one of his hands was trying not to cover his mouth. Ezra’s other hand rested on Crowley’s shoulder, an afterthought on his part, but the real fire to Crowley. The match was struck and placed and no one could undo this fire.

“Ezra is only my journalist name. My real name is Aziraphale, nice to meet you!” Aziraphale. Crowley tasted the name on his tongue. He really was an angel. Aziraphale stood and shuffled his things back into a leather messenger bag, the type no one had used since backpacks became popular.

“Wait, Aziraphale, um, let me give you my number in case you have any other questions, okay? Okay.” Not Crowley’s finest sentence. He pulled out a sleek black phone from his back pocket and handed it to Aziraphale.

“Oh dear, Mr. Crowley, I’m afraid I do not have a cellular phone.” He handed the phone back to Crowley, holding it as if it was made of porcelain. Crowley was devastated. Before he could move on from the first stage of grief, Aziraphale handed him a piece of paper, folded in half. Blue.

“Good afternoon, Mister Crowley.” Blue eyes cast him a last glance and then he was gone.

“Bye, angel.” Crowley almost but whispered to no one but himself. Delicately, he unfolded the piece of paper. In the familiar scrawl was Aziraphale’s phone number, legible this time.


	3. The Bakery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chance meeting number 2 here we go

Unexpected was not in Aziraphale’s vocabulary. He knew what it meant and even relished it when his books took an unexpected turn, enjoying the excitement it brought along. But Aziraphale did not do anything unexpected. Two days after leaving Anthony Crowley standing in the park, a blue note tucked into his hands, Aziraphale was still not over the decision he had made. Really now, handing his phone number to a complete stranger, practically a giant flirtation and towards a world famous rockstar nonetheless. Preposterous, he thought.

He kept drifting back to the interview, the way Anthony Crowley used his hands to tell a story, worn with hardened calluses and chipped black nail polish. Delicate golden rings adorned his fingers like a serpent coils around his prey. Aziraphale was no detective, (He of course had a  _ Sherlock Holmes _ first edition sitting permanently on his bedside table. Any self respecting book owner had a copy, but this extended beyond Aziraphale’s interests. When he was younger, his mother would always read to him after she got home from work.  _ My little Watson, _ she would call him. Aziraphale had long tucked that memory where it could cause no pain and seldom thought of it.) but even he could see that Anthony Crowley had a secret. No man (or woman, mind you) tugged on their hair so much in an attempt to hide the side glances cast around the park. Trying not to dwell on that, it wasn’t his business after all, proved difficult. 

After an hour of deliberation, Aziraphale decided to leave the office and get lunch. Gabriel had returned his draft on the Anthony Crowley story with comments, surprisingly with little critique.

“Aziraphale, did you see my comments on the draft you sent me?” Gabriel had his hand on the edge of the desk, tapping it soundlessly, giving Aziraphale a strange look. His grey suit was a bit wrinkled and matched the lines of purple under his eyes. Aziraphale knew they never talked about anything personal but he couldn’t help but notice the silver wedding band missing. Best not to ask. He dragged his gaze back to the computer.

“Yes, I did. But Gabriel,” he answered cautiously, hoping he wasn't stumbling over his words. Don’t ask, he chided himself, “I don’t understand why my descriptions should be edited. After all, he is extremely charming.” Aziraphale was a firm believer that the press should be without bias.

“I agree, but there is no need to be so excessive about it. Just once is enough.” Gabriel’s defeated tone told Aziraphale he didn’t want to push this. No jokes, no pestering Aziraphale to be more modern, just business. Something was wrong and Aziraphale was no detective.

“Gabriel, do you want to go for a drink after work?” Everyone in the office knew Aziraphale didn’t drink, but they had made that assumption on the fact he had never accepted their requests to grab drinks with them. There was a time and place for alcohol, and this was one of them. They were on the same side, albeit wildly different.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Gabriel meant to growl but his voice betrayed him. He would later blame it on Aziraphale’s hand resting on his wrist, a soft touch he didn’t deserve. Aziraphale was too kind, and Gabriel hating using the word angel so he wouldn’t.

Before Gabriel had answered him, Aziraphale shamed himself for overstepping. Maybe they weren’t friends in a traditional sense, Gabriel’s endless streak of teasing came to mind, but he was probably the closest since his mom died. Aziraphale had never used the word angel, his lifelong belief in God preventing him from bastardizing religion, and he was sure the archangel bearing Gabriel’s name would disapprove. But Gabriel had made sure to check on Aziraphale every day after the funeral until he came back to work, and maybe the duality of humanity was what made them so fascinating to God. Best not to speculate.

The words, don’t tell anyone, and then abrupt removal of the hand under his left Aziraphale following the man’s retreat into his office. His grin was just a bit bastardly. For a man that had once called Aziraphale’s book collection ‘a bunch of pornography’ and then proceeded to argue with him about how sushi would ‘sully his celestial body’ Gabriel sure wasn’t an angel in a sense. However, being human was not a bad thing, Aziraphale thought. 

Grabbing his coat, Aziraphale slipped out of the office and into the busy London streets. Since the interview with Anthony Crowley the days had been cloudy, not that that was a surprise to any Londoner. Aziraphale quickened his pace, his stomach set on a french bakery not two blocks from the office but his mind on Anthony Crowley. To call the man paranoid would not do, being famous tended to bring that out in people. He’d be lying if Aziraphale said he didn’t search up Anthony Crowley after the interview, even if it was only to check his age and the names of his bandmates. If you wanted to know something, finding out yourself is really the only way to go about it. He’s part of the mafia, suggested Aziraphale’s brain. No, it’s never the obvious answer.

It had been almost two full days and Anthony Crowley hadn’t called. Or perhaps he did, not realizing that Aziraphale had not given him his work phone. The cafe’s yellow umbrellas greeted Aziraphale, bowing slightly in the wind as if to announce an important presence. Reaching for the door, he laid eyes on an unexpected face. It was Anthony Crowley! Before he could prepare an excuse to have lunch with the rockstar Aziraphale noticed he was with company. A pretty girl, younger than him, with full lips and dark curly hair. Round glasses threatened to fall off her face as she laughed. Aziraphale’s hand left the door and he backed away deciding that he didn’t want crepes anymore. His stomach protested but he couldn’t face a situation like that, heart pounding in something akin to betrayal.

When Aziraphale got back from lunch, a grey sticky note was stuck to the screen of his closed laptop. Almost laughable, the efforts Gabriel went through to make himself seem uncaring. Golden calligraphy and the two words, seven o’clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah Gabriel isn't a total asshole but he is also human


	4. The Pub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to drive up to help my girlfriend move into her apartment, and college starts back up soon so updates might be slower!
> 
> trigger warning for descriptions of a panic attack

Anthony Crowley had spent more than his allotted lunch break spilling his chance encounter with an angel to his one and only friend, Anathema. They both ordered tea, earl grey. (Back when Crowley first left his job to become a rockstar he ended up renting a shoddy apartment in Soho. Anathema had accidentally walked into, the door opening at her touch, Crowley sobbing above his guitar. The wires had been ripped from their places, cuts littering Crowley’s hands. She had dropped her freshly baked cookies on the ground and shattered the plate. Afterwards, they had shared a quiet cup of earl grey in Crowley’s apartment. Since then, they hadn't spent a month without seeing each other.) Only Anathema ended up drinking her tea, Crowley’s forgotten immediately. Many of the cafe’s patrons watched the animated discussion, discreetly. 

“I mean how often does one get to meet an angel?” His voice had gone high pitched and was gesturing wildly with his arms. Anathema was patient. She sat through the barely followable ramblings of a madman, counting the number of times he called the other man an angel. The tally was up to twenty-three.

“You know where he works, right?” Anathema had to interrupt or Crowley would have spent the next twenty minutes going on about Aziraphale’s eyes. “Why don’t you send him flowers and say they're a thank you for the interview?” She knew Crowley couldn’t resist that idea. When Anathema got together with Newton, who was working as Crowley’s personal assistant at the time, he made a point to sit down Newton and tell him about how to court. Which had scared the poor boy, but Anathema noted Newton went out of his way to restock her witchy herbs and help with research without asking.

“Anathema, that’s genius! What would I do without you?” Crowley knew the answer to that question and it was something stupid.

“Probably die,” Anathema deadpanned, making the pair burst out laughing. Crowley’s chair was dangerously tilted backwards and threatened to drop him on the floor as he shook with laughter, Anathema beaming. After a few deep breaths, Crowley was about to retort back when he caught a glimpse of Aziraphale outside the bakery. 

Choking on his words, Crowley stood up in haste, almost knocking over his cold tea. Sputtering out an apology as he pulls his jacket on, he trips out the door and into the streets. But Aziraphale was gone.

Later Anthony Crowley had banged his head against the wheel of his retro Bentley. Had Aziraphale seen him and not come in on purpose? Maybe he regretted giving Crowley his number, which he hadn’t touched but was tucked neatly into his wallet. Was rejection always this painful? Crowley couldn’t breathe, realizing a moment too late that he was having a panic attack. His lungs suddenly had no air, like lead weights they pulled him under the water. Violently shuddering, Crowley dug his nails into the wheels, trying to find anything to ground him. Sunglasses had been thrown against the door, wet. It was almost ten minutes before he could see again. His throat was raw from screaming. Right, he decided, he needed extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

There was only one pub in London that knew him before he was world-famous-rock-legend Anthony Crowley. In Soho, three blocks away from Crowley’s old apartment stood Shadwell’s. The place was really a hole in the wall, only the purple light in the window indicating they were open. Once, Crowley knew everyone that frequented this pub. Now, ten years later, all the regulars had passed away or moved on. It really was the perfect place to get drunk without the paparazzi bothering him. The plan of getting hammered was going smoothly until Crowley noticed two men walk in, one swimmingly familiar. He was drunk and it took him almost a minute to figure out the man was Aziraphale. His suit was almost the same one he had worn to the interview, but with a different tartan tie. Oh, angel, Crowley thought.

The sight of Aziraphale’s companion made Crowley’s heart seize up again. Everything from his salt-and-pepper hair to his perfectly tailored suit made Crowley jealous. The two looked close, the other man’s hand on Aziraphale’s lower back, steering them directly to the bar as they walked in. Crowley grimaced at that. After ordering, the two struck up a quiet conversation, Crowley wishing he could hear what they were saying. As the hour went by, Crowley started on the second bottle. He should’ve known that Aziraphale had someone, kicking himself silently for thinking that he didn’t. The angel deserved love, and not from Crowley.

An unhealed wound reopening with that thought and threatening to drip blood over Crowley’s mind. He sat paralyzed as he watched the other man swat Aziraphale’s hands away as he untied the angel’s tie, unbuttoning his top button for good measure. The tie ended up tucked into Aziraphale’s coat as he looked on, an uncomfortable smile settling onto his face. Then the man took his own scarf, a light grey, and neatly arranged it on Aziraphale. Crowley had enough.

Knocking over his first empty wine bottle, almost smashing the unused wine glass, he picked up the second half-full wine bottle and headed towards the men. The alcohol gave him confidence but still he clutched the bottle like his life depended on it. He had to make sure his angel was safe. Stumbling over, the other man was the first to notice him.

‘What the hell?’ Was all the man could get out before Anthony Crowley found himself threatening him.

“Listen, buddy,” he spat, every second making him angrier, “Can’t you see he’s uncomfortable? Don’t touch him like that.”

Before the man could respond to Crowley, Aziraphale had grabbed Crowley’s arm, shaking him slightly. His words were slurred but not as much as the other the man's.

“Anthony Crowley? What are you doing, let go of Gabriel! He hasn’t done anything wrong.” Crowley growled, then softened. Gabriel took advantage of that moment to half-shove him away, Crowley turning all his attention to the hand still holding on to his arm, taking Aziraphale in. He was shaking, eyes wide and disappointed. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley stammered, backing away from Aziraphale’s touch. With wine bottle still in hand, he fled the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say angst?


	5. The Pub, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise my boys will end up communicating, meanwhile enjoy the scene from a different perspective

The pub Aziraphale and Gabriel decided on was a few blocks from where Aziraphale lived. They took a cab on Aziraphale’s suggestion, not wanting to risk damaging Gabriel’s company car. Aziraphale could walk home and didn’t want his only friend doing anything stupid. As the cab drove away, Gabriel opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. The purple light greeted them and Aziraphale smiled. This was his comfort zone.

Gabriel had all but pushed him to the bar, opting out of the comfy chairs that Aziraphale usually resided in. He decided not to voice his displeasure and took a seat next to Gabriel. Aziraphale watched as Gabriel ordered three shots of tequila and proceeded to do all three before starting his tale. The low light made Gabriel’s dark circles more prominent, his day old stubble and dull, hurt eyes made him seem thousands of years old.

“I know you noticed the missing ring, and thought maybe this would help cheer me up. While the thought of getting absolutely plastered with you on a Friday night is not something I would ever do, here I am.” Aziraphale smiled and nodded, sometimes it was better not to try and reply to these comments, knowing that Gabriel was prone to lash out. The night went downhill from there.

Soon Gabriel had racked up eight shots while Aziraphale sipped on his second glass of whiskey. He had never had whiskey before, but it seemed like a type of drink for this situation. To say Gabriel had overshared was an understatement. There were so many things Aziraphale wished to forget about tonight, maybe secretly hoping whiskey would help him do that. Gabriel babbled on, drunk, his coat now draped across the bar.

“She was always starting fights with me, and I tried to please her so bad. Who just leaves a fucking note while you’re at work. She said, she said, and then she didn’t come back. She had the nerve to say I had too much blind faith.” Gabriel emphasized _blind faith_ like it was a disease. It continued along these lines for the next ten minutes. Aziraphale had zoned out, head spinning, maybe from Gabriel or maybe from the alcohol. His mind went to Anthony Crowley, unprovoked. How nice it would be if he was here, Aziraphale thought. A blush rose to Aziraphale’s cheeks. Gabriel had stopped talking and that allowed Aziraphale to return to reality, the silence hanging over them like a blanket.

“Aziraphale, dude,” Gabriel finally spoke, slurring his words and sloshing the newly acquired bourbon in his glass in circles. “Why are you still so dressed up, we aren’t at work. Don’t be so stiff.” Before Aziraphale could reply, telling him he likes this just fine, thank you, Gabriel was tugging off his tie. Aziraphale froze, trying to remember the last time he was touched like this. His chest seized up, hands defensively trying to push Gabriel away.

“Woah, dude, calm down.” Aziraphale’s tie was off now, being folded by Gabriel and then slipped into his coat pocket, “I won’t let you lose it, I know you love tartan.” The top button of Aziraphale’s shirt was unbuttoned, Gabriel’s fingers stopping, as if asking for permission. Oh. He knew what was going to happen next if he didn’t say anything.

“Gabriel no, stop. I get you’re hurt but this won’t help. Neither of us want this.” That made the other man pull away, a shameful look on his face. He didn’t know Gabriel was into men, but ultimately not the most important topic right now. Aziraphale gave him an uncertain smile, knowing it was bleeding with pity. Say something, he thought, say anything please end this awkward silence.

“I’m a bit cold now.” Anything but that Aziraphale. Gabriel took off his scarf and wrapped it around him, silent but an apology, of sorts. “I’m going to ask the bartender to call you a cab, okay?” The other man only nodded in reply. Before Aziraphale could call the bartender over, Anthony Crowley had appeared out of nowhere. He was drunk, and defending Aziraphale’s honor. Without thinking, Aziraphale was grabbing his arm, shaking it to make sure he was actually there. Words were coming out of his mouth, and Anthony Crowley was looking at him like lovers do after waking up in each other’s arms. The moment passed and he was gone, apologies murmured low.

“Okay. Weird,” Gabriel spoke first, followed by the strained voice of Aziraphale.

“Oh, dear. I better follow him and make sure he’s alright,” A pause while Aziraphale pulled his coat on, rebuttoning his top button, “Get home safe, Gabriel. Don’t be stupid.” He handed the other man 20 pounds and hurried out the door.

Outside the pub there was no sign of Anthony Crowley. Aziraphale had been foolish to avoid him the first time, it seemed unlikely they would ever meet again. It was hard to admit but he couldn’t bring himself to dislike Anthony Crowley. Maybe the two of them weren’t so different, but Aziraphale hadn’t figured that out yet. Voices came from around the corner, drawing him towards the sound, hoping it would be Anthony Crowley. Peeking out from behind the brick wall, determined not to frighten the other man, Aziraphale watched and listened, unseen.

A strange man stood between Aziraphale and Anthony Crowley. His grey hair sitting like a mop on top of his head, wearing an unfortunate color scheme of brown and black. A knife glinted in the moonlight as he spun it around in his hand. 

“Crowley, you’ve been avoiding us. Come with us.” The man’s voice was raspy like someone close to their deathbed, although he couldn’t have been more than 40.

“Fuck you,” Crowley replied, token smug smile upon his face wavering only slightly.

“Well I did ask nicely.”

Another man appeared out of the shadows, startling Crowley, and driving a knife into his stomach. (Aziraphale enjoyed a good crime movie as much as the next person. He had always been interested in the way human emotion could make you do regrettable things. His favorite one of Alfred Hitchcock’s. The plot consisted of two strangers on a train deciding to swap murders, one wanting his wife dead and the other his father. This was nothing like that.)

“Hello, Crowley,” the third man twisting the knife like a key grinned. The pained scream that escaped Crowley was like nothing Aziraphale had ever heard, blood collecting on the pavement too fast.

“Get away from him!” He heard himself saying, stepping into the alley directly behind the grey-haired man. The man spun around and held the knife up to Aziraphale, cackling at the sight of the shorter man.

“You don’t scare me.”

“I should.” Aziraphale disarmed him in two seconds, wielding the knife against him. On instinct, he put the knife through the other man’s hand, making sure he ended up on the ground. Ignoring the scream, Aziraphale advanced on the remaining perpetrator.

“You don’t need this arm, right?” Was all the warning he got before Aziraphale had broken his arm, pushing him away from Crowley. The blond man dropped to Crowley’s side, momentarily cradling his face in both hands.

“You’re going to be okay, I got you.” Was all Crowley registered before he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is That Bastard


	6. The Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is always harder to write for me, hope I didn't butcher it

Anthony Crowley had never been in a knife fight. To be more accurate, Crowley had never brought a knife to a fight. Many people had held a knife against him but he could duck and run. He’d gotten really good at that. Hastur and Ligur should’ve been easy to avoid. But a bottle and a half of wine had left Crowley with no defenses, no self preservation. Ligur had been kind enough to twist the knife into his stomach, leaving him desperately trying to stop blood from pooling around him. It was getting harder to press on his wound, and Crowley thought of Aziraphale. The angel was there when he looked up, soft hands holding his face.

“You’re going to be okay, I got you.” And Crowley let go.

Pink silk pillow was Anthony Crowley’s first coherent thought. Cracking open his eyes, expecting the unforgivable sight of the alley but met only with the lightest shade of pink. The pool of blood under him was gone, sharp pain replaced by a slightly woozy feeling like being buzzed. On instinct, Crowley reached for his sunglasses but found them gone. He sat up, beige pajamas enveloping his wiry frame, eyes straining to see where the light beyond the door was coming from. An angel crossed the threshold into the room, a familiar angel.

What Crowley had want to say was: Where am I, how did I get here, and what the heaven is going on? Unfortunately, his mouth had other ideas.

“Oh, you’re an angel.” The angel in question turned beet red, but Crowley continued to talk like he was in confession.

“I thought God had forsaken me. I thought maybe I had asked too many questions. About the Great Plan, about my existence. She made me feel like I was undeserving of Her love. I cannot forgive Her, but maybe I can make peace with Her. After all, I am here aren’t I?” The angel let him talk, blue eyes meeting Crowley’s. After a beat, the angel crossed over to him, placing a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh, Anthony.” There was softness in the angel’s voice as the hand guided him back onto his back.

“Did you chose this form for me?” Crowley had to ask. Why not his mom? Why would an angel take the form of a journalist that Crowley barely knew? He reached out, tracing his fingers along the angel’s jaw, desperate for a bit of heavenly warmth.

“God loves all of her children. She would no more forsaken you then me. Sleep now, darling. Dream of what you like best.” Crowley couldn’t argue with the angel, and as if by miracle, he fell asleep and dreamt of what he liked best.

The second time Crowley awoke, his side ached intensely and he was without a shirt. He groaned, pain shooting through his body as his chest moved. Perfectly manicured hands were touching him, and he followed them around his stomach. Sunlight filtered through the single window, illuminating the scene.

“Good morning, Mr. Crowley.” Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but it felt like he spent the night with cotton in his mouth. Slowly, he dragged his body into an upright position.

“It’s just Crowley,” he gets out, “How long was I out?”

“Three days.” Aziraphale had finished redressing the wound.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, my plants.” The other man gave him a funny look and Crowley felt the need to explain. “If I’m gone for too long, my plants will think it’s okay to act funny.”

“You ridiculous man, getting stabbed and then worrying about your plants.” Aziraphale was looking at him fondly, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to lean forward until their lips met. With a surge of confidence, one of his hands snaked up Aziraphale’s thigh. Before anything else could happen, Aziraphale stood up and announced he would make Crowley a cup of tea. Idiot, Crowley thought as he was left alone.

Aziraphale returned with tea, as promised, almost five minutes later. The mug, white with angel wings made Crowley grin. He took the mug, murmuring a thank you before starting to sip at it. The tea was hot, earl grey. There was the tugging again at his heart. Crowley willed for it to go away, Aziraphale had a boyfriend.

“So, where did you learn to fight?” Crowley asked after he finished the tea, patting the bed, inviting Aziraphale to take up residence next to him. Aziraphale obliged, making sure to keep a few inches between their bodies. His hands laced together in his lap.

“When I was a kid, I was picked on a lot. I came home with a lot of black eyes and missed a lot of lunches. Once my mom found out, she took it upon herself to teach me self defense. The next time someone called me names, I ended up breaking his arm. I got away without suspension cause the teachers defended me.” Aziraphale chuckled as if it was a good memory, but Crowley was acutely aware of the lump in his throat.

“You never really forget how to fight.” It was a sorrowful silence, both men lingering on past memories.

“You saved my life,” Crowley croaked. Tears welled up in his eyes, overwhelmed by the amount Aziraphale seemed to care. He tried not to choke, “You don’t even know me. I’ve done bad things. Why would you put yourself in danger for me?” Crowley barely heard Aziraphale’s reply, forcing his eyes closed to stop himself from crying.

“It was the right thing to do.” They sat in silence for what seemed like hours, side by side. So close, but never farther apart then now. The occasional sound of tires as cars drove by was the only proof that sound even existed. Crowley had opened his eyes, letting a few tears fall into his lap. Aziraphale said nothing, but shifted slightly to rub Crowley’s back. Eventually, Aziraphale got up, patting Crowley before departing.

“Get some more rest, dear boy.” Crowley heard from the doorway, not daring to look up. And just as after the interview, Crowley’s response was lost to Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College has started and I hope I'll have time to keep writing. Thanks for liking and commenting :)


	7. The Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back bitches

Aziraphale was glad that Anthony Crowley stopped writhing and managed to fall back asleep. The cold mug was clutched in his hand, now devoid of tea, as he hovered over Crowley. He had run out of morphine pills when the third day came around, and hoped two terrible days of forcing the pills down Crowley’s throat was enough. There was a moment he was semi-conscious, mumbling incoherently and gripping Aziraphale like he was a cliffside and the rockstar was trying not to fall. The blond man had murmured reassurances in Crowley’s ear until he let go, slipping back into unconsciousness. Aziraphale couldn’t get himself to leave the other man afterwards. It had been years since someone else’s presence shared his in the flat. Of course, Gabriel had been there a few times, but never stayed too long. He didn’t want to think of the last man that left his cozy flat feeling empty.

It was hard to admit but he had grown fond of the devilish smirk that graced the rockstar in his better moments. Since that day on the bench, Aziraphale regularly got distracted thinking of Crowley. Looking down on him now, sleeping peacefully, his heart swelled. Not thinking, he laced their fingers together, just for a moment, to feel the calluses of hard work. Guitar strings were unforgiving. Aziraphale dared not do more, fearing he would wake Crowley. It was silly to have a little crush on such a preposterous man. Crowley had called him an angel, Crowley had joked about his plants, Crowley had gotten drunk and stabbed, Crowley had... Crowley had cried. Poor thing must have been feeling the side effects of the painkillers.

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands, on the verge of tears. So much had happened and he was tired, his subconscious begging him to just lay down on the bed for one minute. No, no, he couldn’t disturb Crowley, Aziraphale thought. The man, after all, had probably had a longer day than him. A longer three days. Why else would one get so drunk in a nearly unknown bar?

Aziraphale got up to leave, lingering in the door a moment too long. There was softness in Crowley’s features despite the pain he had been in two days ago. The first night was horrible; Aziraphale had fallen asleep in his loveseat after sewing up Crowley’s side and was woken to the other man screaming. Aziraphale had rushed to his side, gently trying to wake him from unconsciousness, but to no avail. He had never been so terrified of a sound before. After it was all over, Aziraphale couldn’t close his eyes without hearing Crowley scream. For the first time in a long time he prayed, asking God to forgive Crowley and make sure he was alright. It was terrifying to think what would have happened if he wasn’t there that night. Would Crowley have died? 

He busied himself with reading, trying not to let his thoughts drift to the man upstairs, picking something somber to match his mood. A cup of cocoa, hot, held in one hand, legs folded to hold the large book. While Aziraphale usually enjoyed Hamlet immensely, the gloomy ones were his favorite, there was such sadness in Hamlet’s soliloquy that Aziraphale couldn’t bear to continue. Would he be able to continue on with his normal life after everything that had happened with Crowley? Would Crowley want to see him again? (There were many things that caused Aziraphale anxiety in this situation. Namely, he liked Crowley. There were very few people in his life he wanted to know and understand. Crowley was one of them.)

“Hey, angel.” He was pulled from that train of thought when Crowley spoke up from the door frame, blinking a few times, letting his golden eyes adjust to the light. The sun couldn’t have shone brighter if it tried. Aziraphale’s pajama shirt was slipping off one of Crowley’s shoulders and the pants hid his feet. There was a slight flush to his face, making Aziraphale grin, and then promptly blush because he just processed what Crowley had called him . 

“How are you, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, closing the book and gently setting on the table beside him.

“Peachy keen, if you’d just hand over my clothes I can be on my way-”

“Crowley! You’re in no health to wander the streets alone,” And I want you to stay, he wanted to say.

“Ngk.” Crowley looked uncomfortable, embarrassed even. Aziraphale’s heart sank. Of course he wanted to leave. To go somewhere safe while he recovers. The other man must have sensed the waves of disappointment coming off of Aziraphale cause he added, “I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay, dear. Let me call you a cab.” In a swift movement, Azriaphale got up from the loveseat and walked over to the landline. He dialed and waited for them to pick up. Meanwhile, he watched Crowely flit around his living room (and makeshift library), occasionally touching the spine of a book. There was something endearing about the way the other man fit into the room, as if he lived here, raven hair matching the flowers on the cover of the loveseat. No one had ever slotted so perfectly into Aziraphale’s life.

There was a considerable absence without Crowley that night. Aziraphale had remade the bed twice, not because he needed to but because perhaps he wasn’t ready to sleep yet. There was nothing personal in their goodbye earlier that day. Crowley had all but ran out as soon as the cab arrived, leaving Aziraphale to wave from the door as it drove away. It felt a bit off after nursing the man back to health, to be off without at least a warm smile. He did promise to be in touch, Aziraphale entertaining the thought that he’d call and ask him out to dinner. It would be a wonderful affair. Two drawers of clothes now resided on the floor and why couldn't he find his beige pajamas?? No matter, he had a pair in tartan. It was only later that night Aziraphale realized Crowley must have taken them. A real bugger to lose his favorite pajamas. 


End file.
